


take her away (over my dead body)

by stellatiate



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellatiate/pseuds/stellatiate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>boyd dies and erica lives and isaac swears he will not let her life go to waste; he will tear anyone apart who dares to take her away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take her away (over my dead body)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadeblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadeblue/gifts).



…

 **i. don’t break me up**  
fragile porcelain girl-doll  
…

Erica doesn’t mind the nightmares anymore.

She learns to shake off the terror, to drown that tenuous feeling of danger settling through her bones in other ways. Sometimes, she strips down in front of the bathroom mirror and flexes each joint until it all _feels_ real again. Or she traipses the border of the woods and lets that fear vibrate out of her skin until she is curled up, golden eyed, screaming— _growling_ — at an empty, black sky.

The nights where Isaac sits at the foot of her bed are the worst, because that is not where she wants him to be—not when she dreams of him carrying her out of that bank vault, dripping blood and dirty water. Those are the real nightmares, those slices of her real life because she cannot say it is false, it is fake, because it is _her_.

So she flips herself around so she is leaning on her elbows right above Isaac’s head, and she scratches her nails through his scalp until he falls asleep.

…

“I miss him.”

Isaac says it to her as if it is the most plain sensation in the world, sitting across from her at the tiny, rickety table at Derek’s loft. Erica doesn’t give a shit because what is Derek’s may as well be hers, too; her attitude sways and bends depending on how she feels, whether or not she is angry about the price of her brand new leather jacket pack life.

Boyd’s absence is so palpable it is like a yawning black hole between the two of them.

She can’t help but speak quietly, because if she raises her voice any more, it will trigger tears and anger and she will have to run, run away again. “I wish I could have saved him.”

He knocks his knuckles against the surface of the table, his palm curled slightly towards her, and Erica raises her eyebrow in a perfect arch. His eyes almost look like the sky, when they are glossy and emotional and full of so much—puppy, he is _such_ a puppy—and she can’t look away.

Erica taps her nails into the center of his palm and he closes his hand around her clawed fingertips.

…

Erica leans against his shoulder with a sigh. There is something about his company that drenches her in sadness but in hope simultaneously, like she can cry until her eyes bleed into the ocean and still carry on with her life afterwards.

She doesn’t quite understand it, but she doesn’t mind it very much, either.

“How was I?” Her voice is low, deliberate, and Isaac looks at her.

His eyes are never wide, he never lets his emotion flit across his features without his own permission. There is always some calculation in his gaze, a restrain before he lets his smiles glitter widely or swallows down his fear and trembles and he is so much more composed than her.

A frown creases his lips after a few moments. “You were bad.” And she thinks he may leave it at that, but he stretches his arm up above his head and slings it over her shoulders, squeezes her arm with his hand. “Really bad and really bloody, like you could’ve died with even the slightest movement in my arms.”

Isaac trails his hand up the side of her face, fingernails blunt against the edges of her curled hair, and he pulls her face towards him to kiss her on the forehead.

Terrible, is all she can think, it must have been so terrible to hold her that way.

So she lets him hold her like this, because he lingers, with his lips resting against her temple.

…

 **ii. the easy way about it  
** there is no such thing

…

It’s three days before they all see each other. Erica has no interest in seeing Scott (he is still a barely ally in her opinion, though Derek has fallen out of her favor, he has been absent and Isaac is all she has). So she tells herself it is a pure accident that she slams his hand in her locker when he walks up to her in school.

Her eye is still black underneath her foundation, her lips still crack when she doesn’t smack them blood red against one another. And Scott stutters with that voice of his that reeks of optimism.

“Are you _ever_ going to tell us why you ran away? Why you _both_ ran away?”

And her eyes flash lightning in his face because _how dare he bring Boyd into this at all_? Her nails dig into her textbooks, threaten to pierce through the flimsy material, her face creased with fatal fury.

“Shut the fuck up, it doesn’t even matter,” she says with a wrath that sounds more petulant than entitled, but Erica can’t make herself care, “I’m here, and he’s not here, and he—”

 _He was my only friend_.

And it doesn’t matter that Erica still has Isaac, because he is not here, and all she has now are her tears and her self-replenishing anger, eating her alive.

…

They corner Isaac after school, reluctantly partnered together. Isaac is still unsure of the limits of his transformation, but he thinks the sour, pervasively bitter smell in his nose is the scent of Allison’s disdain for him wafting from her body.

Scott gives him _that look_ , where Isaac knows he is about to ask him for something that is on the bounds of impossible, for any given reason. He is going to ask something too much of him, but Isaac cannot trust anyone as much as he trusts Scott.

(Maybe Erica, but he is scared to put anything too heavy over her shoulders lest he have to carry her weakly to safety again.)

“We don’t trust her,” Allison snaps, staring at Scott for deliberating so long over a gentle way to mince his words, “and we don’t like this.”

“I don’t care.” He glares at Allison because she has absolutely no right, because no one else did what he did, Erica was _everything_ he had, Erica and Scott were _all_ that he had, anymore.

Derek was like a long lost dream, the memory at the pyramid base that Isaac could search for if he wanted to make himself hurt, if he wanted to break himself down into pieces and cry them all into a river.

Scott lifts his hand as an attempt to calm the air between them, as if he can wave the static away from their bodies. “Isaac, listen. It’s not that we don’t trust Erica—”

“We _don’t_ trust her!”

“ _You_ don’t trust her.” Scott reminds Allison with a pointed look, but she does not look punished or reprimanded—simply reproachful, as if she has a clairvoyant sensation about this entire situation. “Isaac, we’re just worried. I’m worried.”

Isaac folds his arms across his chest, swings his book bag higher onto his shoulder. “Don’t be worried. I’m taking care of her,” he narrows his eyes towards Allison, tilts his head back to look at Scott, “we’re taking care of each other.”

It is as true as anything else Isaac can muster up.

And that is about all he can take of Allison’s smothering presence around him, so he shoulders past the two of them, spine taut, steps purposeful.

“Isaac,” Scott calls, his voice echoing through the emptying hallways, “we can take care of you, too!”

He wants to laugh, but he bites that emotion down, bites it back, and hops down the stairs outside of the school to meet Erica by the curb.

…

Erica doesn’t remember when they start, but she feels an abysmal sense of longing open up inside of her, a chasm that she pours Isaac and all of his complex emotions into. He doesn’t mind, either, because he is the one who held her close to him with his lips touching her gently, so it doesn’t matter that she kisses him first.

And this is how they take care of each other, because when they touch it is a heart to heart, it is tears trailing down their cheeks and hearts spilling secrets locked within them for way too long. Erica watches the way that Isaac dismantles in her arms, pulling his shirt overheard and spine cracking under transformation for a moment.

It is so nice to watch him let go of his restraints, even if it exists in these flickering moments where he is unafraid.

He is the one who slices through her clothes and snatches up the waves of golden blonde hair, yanks her close to him and kisses the bruises and cracks back onto her lipstick-colored mouth.

She can’t help but think about how nice it feels to stretch her claws out against his back, to anchor her legs around his waist and jam her hips down into his. They are messy and young and Erica is just happy to feel something, to let the adrenaline light up her veins like she is sprinting through the woods again, growling and fighting and living for the hunt.

Everything had seemed so glamorous before, but now she is content enough to have this tiny sliver of intimacy with Isaac, even if it is filled with bloody scratches across their skin and kisses full of sharp teeth and animalistic noises. Even if Isaac stabs his way between her legs like a bandit, like he is trying to slice her down the center.

Especially when she screams, when her body braces for the impact of pleasure, when she can hide herself in his arms when it is all said and done.

…

 **iii. they tried to take you away from me  
** it’s been that way from the beginning

…

Scott hates being tangled up in Allison as much as she hates being tangled up in him, but there is a comforting routine in the way they are with one another, and it is the only thing that keeps him anchored. Her body is familiar—he’s positive that nearly every single emotion has leaked from between them because it is rigid and reliable and that is what he needs.

So he cups his hand against the small of her back, on the spot where he always used to tap his fingers, he kisses her with the same familiar tilt of his head, leans his body down over hers in the most familiar sensation, like she is a map to a place he has been over and over.

But he stops with his arms braced around her for a moment, eyes moving around thoughtfully before he gets off of her and looks for his shirt on the floor. (He doesn’t have to turn around to know that Allison is lacking in disappointment and probably looking for her other shoe somewhere underneath his bed.)

Someone knocks on the door downstairs, and Scott forfeits looking for his shirt to scrape himself down the hallway cautiously.

“Scott.”

Another knock sounds, but he recognizes the voice, he all but runs to the door to throw it back against the wall. It is the sound of Isaac’s voice that troubles him, because it is weak and full of tremors, and he does not answer the door in any better shape.

Blood drips through his curls, matting them down to the front of his head and sliding between his eyes. His shirt is torn—a clawed slice across his chest that also pulses with dark red blood, and he looks as if the energy is pouring out of his wounds instead, like his skeleton will collapse from right underneath his skin.

“Isaac, what the _hell_ —”

“Erica,” his knuckles are white as he grasps the doorframe, but his face is even more ghastly pale, and Scott grabs him, blood smearing all over the sweat on his body. Isaac hisses and nearly topples completely into Scott’s arms, but he holds him up—somehow.

“What the hell did she do?” Allison’s voice chimes in as she thunders down the stairs, runs over to help carry Isaac into the kitchen, dropping him unceremoniously into a chair. Allison grips his face in her hands and yanks him towards her, dangerously close, and Scott wants to stop her, but his hands are alarmingly still.

“Erica,” he breathes, and he sounds labored for a moment, before the panic laces through his lungs and tosses him into hyperventilation. Allison slams the heel of her hand into his back and he gasps, he chokes, and blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. “She’s gone, they took her, they came back for her and they’re going to—”

Isaac tips his head up towards Scott, a bloody mess in shredded clothes, and he only looks like a wounded animal, like the wheezing noise slipping between his lips his is siren song of death. “They’re going to kill her, Scott. They can’t. I can’t lose her _again_.”

…

(But they do, and he does.)

**Author's Note:**

> another gift to **shadeblue**! i wrote this one and i meant for it to have scallisaac but i couldn't shake this ending. i hope you enjoy them!


End file.
